Napoleon.

Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence was only one-quarter French and three-quarters
English. Her grandmother had been a St. Pierre; but it was not from that
lady that she inherited a certain open-handedness which took her French
friends by surprise.

"It is not that she has the cause at heart," commented Madame de
Chantonnay, as she walked laboriously on Albert's arm down the ramp of
the Chateau de Gemosac at the termination of the meeting. "It is not for
that that she throws her note of a thousand francs upon the table and
promises more when things are in train. It is because she can refuse
nothing to Dormer Colville. Allez, my son! I have a woman's heart! I
know!"

Albert contented himself with a sardonic laugh. He was not in the humour
to talk of women's hearts; for Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence's action
had struck a sudden note of British realism into the harmony of his
political fancies. He had talked so much, had listened to so much talk
from others, that the dream of a restored monarchy had at last been
raised to those far realms of the barely possible in which the Gallic
fancy wanders in moments of facile digestion.

It was sufficient for the emergency that the others present at the
meeting could explain that one does not carry money in one's pocket in
a country lane at night. But in their hearts all were conscious of a
slight feeling of resentment toward Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence; of a
vague sense of disappointment, such as a dreamer may experience on being
roughly awakened.

The three priests folded their hands with complacency. Poverty, their
most cherished possession, spoke for itself in their case. The notary
blinked and fumbled at his lips with yellow fingers in hasty thought. He
was a Royalist notary because there existed in the country of the Deux
Sevres a Royalist clientele. In France, even a washerwoman must hold
political views and stand or fall by them. It was astounding how poor
every one felt at that moment, and it rested, as usual, with a woman's
intuition to grasp the only rope within reach. "The vintage," this lady
murmured. The vintage promised to be a bad one. Nothing, assuredly,
could be undertaken, and no promise made, until the vintage was over.

So the meeting broke up without romance, and the conspirators dispersed
to their homes, carrying in their minds that mutual distrust which is
ever awakened in human hearts by the chink of gold, while the dormant
national readiness to detect betraya